Tough Guy
by coffee shop poet
Summary: A waitress working the early morning shift at Johnie's Coffee Shop encounters Mr. Orange. A conversation over coffee and towers of liquid creamer packets ensues.


There's a little diner, on the corner of Wilshire. It's a rundown piece of shit, old as Moses and wearing a lifetime's worth of wear on its crumbling plaster face, but hell if it doesn't boast the best cup of Joe for blocks. Down a ways there's a diner who tries to best it with the cup of shit they try to pass off as 'one hundred percent Columbian brew and don't you forget it!'. We all know better around here. There's no competition. You can practically smell the seething South American jungle the second you walk through our door.

Doesn't get any fresher than that – and don't you forget it.

The scene sets like this, see: Johnie's Coffee Shop. Three a.m. and raining like cats and dogs outside our smudged, half-fogged windows sitting in their peeling blue frames. Out back, the busboys are yammering in broken English over a few smokes and the latest edition of Playboy (_I'd like to get mi manos on those tatas, 'ombre!)_. The cooks move about, restless, some of them pulling agonized faces at the clock every now and then as it refuses to move faster (they got kids to feed and wives to fuck and there's just not enough light in the day for it all). There's a few customers, scattered here and there and cocooned in all the cheap comfort a pleather seat and good conversation can afford.

Everything smells like hot grease and stale smokes. An undercurrent of fresh coffee wafts by my sleepy senses as I walk through the door covered in lost pet flyers and Big O's (down the street, monstrous pink donut on top, you can't miss it) latest deals on fresh donuts. The little welcoming bell chimes in my wake. I've almost a mind to grab myself a cup of Johnie's best brew, slide into a cracked cream-colored booth, and familiarize myself with a glance at the Times. The idea sounds almost too heavenly in its sweet domesticity to a girl who practically lives on her feet. But duty calls. My shift starts in five minutes and I've got no time to be ruminating over the hopelessness of the world and everyone stuck in it.

Here at Johnie's, it's like a family. The home away from home deal, one I never really bought into. Home is a place that can't possibly be imitated – especially not by a few lewd busboys, a tight-knit band of tired, snappish waitresses, and those cooks in the back that could give less of a fuck about the shit they're serving to the general public. But the policy is, nevertheless – your coworkers are your family. Treat them like such or, if you don't like it, find yourself another job. Apparently everyone gets along just fine, going about their business, sidestepping trouble and their dickhead of a manager with eyes installed in the back of his horns. But that could just be the indifference talkin'. No one really loves waiting on people who can't be bothered to tip or treat the people who handle their food with a little respect (an unwise move in my opinion…I've served many a hamburger with a little special secret ingredient hidden in the meat).

One of the boys from the back slithers through the double doors. He reeks of cigarettes and has a smile on his face as wide as the Grand fuckin' Canyon. "Hiya _toots_."

It really is hilarious, the way they say _toots _like they're cool shit but really its sounds like slang for flatulence. But hey, family is family. I flash him a smile as I finish tying off a sailors knot to keep my apron in place. Last week it was falling all over the customers' food. Dickhead didn't like that so much and thought that taking a good portion of my tips might make up for the flood of complaints he received regarding the 'sloppy waitress with the ass'.

I plow through the double doors leading out into the coffee bar, all of which smells like it's been bathed in Pine Sol. _Sweets _(I don't know everyone's names yet and the busboys' monikers are much less of a hassle to remember) is organizing sugar packets by color a way's down, propping up her chin in the palm of her hand in a perfect display of insufferable boredom. She's a dinner shift rookie, never waited on a table in her life before this week. One look at her drooping eyes and flyaway hair (if Dickhead were around she'd be penalized for such a 'sloppy' appearance) could tell you a good long story about a girl with pricey dreams of going to school and getting herself an education. Most of us here are going down that path. I wish I could say I wasn't one of them.

"You look like you could use a good hot cup of Johnie's house brew," I tell her.

She sighs heavily, blowing out a long, impatient breath which sends her blonde fringe flying. "If I have to even _look_ at another fuckin' cup of coffee I'll scream."

This coming from a girl who's only been here a week.

I look around. Everyone seems less tense. There's a hint of mutiny in the air – but where, oh where, is our Captain?

I address Girlie who's coming in to fetch a pitcher of tepid water. "Where's Dickhead?"

"Probably somewhere sucking corporate ass," she mumbles, bending over to select the pitcher with the least amount of ice floating around at the top. "How should I know? I ain't his keeper."

She stalks off with all the regal presence of an Irish queen, red hair perfectly slicked back into its carefully arranged bun as always. Girlie really is the envy of the scarce female population here at Johnie's Coffee Shop. Dickhead was never on her ass for anything except for an occasional slip of the Old Country temper.

The dinner rush has long since slowed down. There's remnants of the bustle here and there, probably a result of a lack of Dickhead's presence, but mostly there's only evidence of a quiet, easygoing place that people come to in order to escape the humdrum of city life. It's a chatting place, a waiting place, a place to come to when you want to break up with a clingy girl. Older couples come here for the early bird specials and coffee (blacker than black, hotter than hot). Kids wander in after a long night of painting the town red for a pick-me-up. It really is an iconic little joint, keeping time with the rest of the city, watching it grow from the sidelines. I couldn't imagine Wilshire without it.

I check my watch one more time. Three o' nine. Sugar's been sorted, the coffee's been brewed in preparation for the surge of early risers and insomniacs that should be coming in soon. I've got no regulars to speak of, not like Girlie or Dollface. They've got a few guys that come in here who tip them well in exchange for good service and a little harmless flirting here and there. I haven't been here long enough for regulars, kinda like poor Sweets (who, right now, is struggling to make out an order of hotcakes from this geezer with a frail, strained sort of voice). It's a process, one that can't be rushed. You've gotta get to _know _people, really know them. Their quirks, their preferences, tidbits of their lives, and it helps to know whether or not they like ketchup on their scrambled eggs. Asking how they've been or after the health of wives and daughters really impresses a man whose well-being has been practically nonexistent all day at work. But sometimes it really all just boils down to whether you've got mile-long legs and a pair of perky breasts that are perfect for ogling. Girlie gets the best tips with her biting wit and spirited temper. The rest of us females with the personality of a wet mop, well…we do the best we can.

I decide to straighten up behind the bar, grabbing the nearest broom and assessing the damage that a plate of spilled French fries has done. A few have been mashed into the flat, scuffed surface of the tile, but mostly a good sweep job should do the trick. I'm about ready to ask one of the _hombres _in the back where the dust pan is (cause god forbid it should be with the broom) when Girlie comes rushing by, not a hair out of place.

"Could you grab that one for us, Lise?"

The way she's asking it – it ain't a question, it's more like a declarative statement – _You **will **grab that one. _I know better, even in my short days as waitress at Johnie's, than to cross Girlie. She passes me by, dodging the broom handle, and disappears into the back. I'm already lifting the latch on the little maroon and black gate leading into the back of the kitchen, pen and notebook in hand, when I see Sweets duck out of the door. The exhaustion has all but drained out of her face as she greets her greasy-looking boyfriend with a semi-nice car, who are waiting for her at the curb. Dollface will be coming in soon to start her shift.

"Which one is 'the one'?" I call over to Girlie.

She's busy with a customer, so mostly all I receive is a dirty look and a nod in the right direction. I follow her line of sight to a lone wolf sitting in the booth farthest away from what little noise our hoppin' hangout might boast at this hour. His booth is cradled in the section where the _Budlight_ sign shines like a neon beacon for straggling alcoholics and the rock fascia (a decorative choice which still seems to confuse me a week after starting here) section of the restaurant is located. I can only see the back of his head, full of strawberry blond hair and gleaming beneath the gold-colored light fixtures. He seems to be pouring over the menu, engrossed in the activity. I mosey on over. No rush.

On my way over, I make sure I'm presentable (as best I can with no mirror in sight). I run my tongue over my teeth, checking for anything unsightly stuck in between them. Check. I fiddle with my hair for a moment before deciding there's no use, it's a regular rat's nest as usual. Check. My apron is neat, my hands are mostly clean, and I'm fairly certain I don't have anything on my face. Check. Ready for take-off.

"See anything you like, sir?"

He looks up from his menu. Interesting looking fellow, not necessarily in a bad way. I find a pair of deep-set green eyes blinking at me almost blearily, as if the brain behind them could use a good strong cup of coffee for a wake-up call. Greased back strawberry blond hair, though it might only look tinted with red in this shitty lighting. It's hard to tell how tall he is with him sitting down like this, legs outstretched beneath the table and shoulders digging into the headboard of the booth, but I can tell he's no Schwarzenegger type. Must think he's some cool shit or something, wearing a leather coat that looks like it belongs to his much bigger father.

We're both assessing one another. The heavily lidded eyes squint a little, taking me in (kinda bony in a starving art student sort of way; nondescript brown hair tucked behind freckled ears in a slapdash ponytail; eyes underlined in dark circles from putting in too many long hours; a smattering of freckles on pale cheeks). He seems to decide I'm about as threatening as an ankle-biter and with a click of his tongue he returns to the menu.

"Heard you guys got the best cup of shitty coffee in town," he says in his best 'tough guy' voice (in that scrawny eleven year old with a raging boner for the Sex Pistols kind of way).

"The very best," I reply, doodling a little heart in the corner of the first page of my notebook. "Some say you can even smell the jungle if you stick your nose far enough into the thick of it."

"What do you think?"

I pause, my hand falling away from the paper. "I think it's a shitty cup of coffee."

He laughs a little. "Then a shitty cup of coffee it is."

"No 'greasy food' chaser?"

He shakes his head, handing me a menu that's long since seen its better years.

I don't even bother scribbling down the order. Coffee. Simple enough. It's a task I could recall in my sleep. And even if I was some sort of brainless dope who couldn't remember how to tie her own shoes, it's one I've done enough times that I could probably do it with my eyes closed by now. Pour coffee, offer cream and sugar, make sure the cup stays filled. Dickhead gets real sore about that. _Keep the customer's cup full. If it's not full at all fuckin' times, I dock your tips._

"What's your name?"

Tough Guy pulls me back. I'd been walking away, my mind on pouring coffee and saving what little tips I can salvage from this dump, when his voice pipes up out of that lonely little corner. I shuffle back (goddamn, my dogs are already barkin').

"What was that you said?"

He's doing that squinting thing again with his eyes. "I asked what your name was."

"My proper English christening? It's Elise," I explain. "But mostly these wetbacks 'round here call me Toots."

"I think I prefer Lise."

"You and me both, doll."

His body shifts into a pensive, Bruce Springsteen writing deep shit at his desk sort of pose. It completely cancels out the cool Tough Guy look I've come to associate him with. "What's it like pushin' plates and pouring coffee for a living?"

"It sucks," I tell him. "But that's no eye-opener."

"Beats suckin' cocks."

"Don't be so sure. At least them gals earn some fat tips." I lean against the table (maybe I could try this whole flirting thing on for size). "They might have dicks shoved down their throats on a daily basis, but hell if they ain't getting paid for it either."

"So what you're saying," he says, pausing to fish a cigarette out of his breast pocket. "is that the cocksuckers of the world know where it's at?"

"Why, you thinking about going into the business?" I ask, nodding toward a couple of the more anxious waitresses. "I know a few chicks who could use a good and proper sucking from a cool cat like you."

"Nah, I don't do fish," he says with a half-smile, casually thumbing over his shoulder. "But I could do for that coffee."

I've been dismissed. Well, can't say I didn't try. I spin on my heels, heading straight for the counter. Girlie's gone and dumped out a whole new crate of creamer packets to start putting out into little cracked dishes. The lack of business is boring her; I can see that roguish Irish temper glaring at me from behind the precious dollop of freckles on her nose. I scoot behind the counter just as she pitches a sugar packet at a leering busboy nearby.

She doesn't look up from what she's doing as I bend down to fetch a pitcher and two mugs; I steal a bowl of creamers from her. "What're you and Mr. Cool talking about over there?"

"Cocksucking."

"_What?"_

I'm off before she even registers my answer. It really is completely dead in here. The last of the customers, both regulars, are carefully selecting toothpicks as Dollface rings them up at the register. The rest of the place is empty. It's just me and Tough Guy then.

Back at the _cool _table, Tough Guy is building a tower of creamers. He's just about getting to a third tier when it all comes crashing down before him, like a pile of broken dreams. By now, he's shed his leather jacket. Just a white t-shirt underneath, tucked into white-washed jeans with a hole in the knee. Doc Martens on his feet. Yeah, this guy is a real badass.

I set down the mug, the pitcher, and the bowl on the table without a word, holding the other cup off to the side. He pushes the creamer-bowl out of the way, reaching for the mug as I pour the coffee, as fresh as it'll get around here. It's still pretty warm, a good rolling tuft of steam floating off the black as black surface. Probably tastes like shit but hey – it's what we're known for.

"Who's that other mug for?" He asks, shaking a white sugar packet.

"Nobody special," I reply.

He pauses, looking around at the deserted floor for a long minute. Then he sits back down, resumes the shaking of his sugar, and doesn't look back at me as I stare blankly at him.

Before long, his mouth opens. "If it ain't for anybody special, why don't you pop a squat and tell me all about the secrets of shitty coffee shop waitresses."

"A boring conversation if I ever heard of one."

Finally he looks up at me, the sugar all poured. He gestures to the empty seat across from him. "Why don't you sit your tired ass down, pour yourself a cup, and _try_ me."

As you wish, your highness. I flop down on the booth, feeling it deflate underneath my ass as all the air escapes out of a deep gash (probably from a pair of keys or a loose pocket knife). Tough Guy pours me a cup, offering me sugar. I wave my hand. All of this without a word being spoken between us.

"So what is it do you do for a living, Mr. Tough Guy?"

He snorts deprecatingly, knocking back a good long drag. "This isn't supposed to be about me."

"Well, I'm making it about you."

With a roll of his eyes, he sits back into the booth and digs a fresh cigarette out of his pocket again. Must be one of those chain smokers who don't believe in lung cancer. "I don't do anything."

"You don't work?"

"Course I work. I ain't no fucking freeloader," he says, but I almost don't believe him.

"So what's your job? What do you do?"

He flashes me a wolfish grin, one that looks almost too devilishly comical to be real in this lighting. Outside, a bit of gray is beginning to line the horizon and spill over onto the walks. The air must be getting thicker with an early, smog-riddled mist.

"Fine, I get it," I sit back too, eyeing his pack of Marlboros, which are sticking out of the hidden breast pocket in his _hot stuff_ leather jacket. "This is one of those 'lonely conversations with a downtrodden waitress' instances. Well, if that's what this is, then I'll be wanting a cigarette for my trouble."

"Pushy broad, aren't you?"

I shrug as he pulls an enticingly long cigarette out of a nearly empty pack. "Technically I'm on shift. I could get in a real deep pile of shit with my good old boss Dickhead for this."

He lights me up, watching me closely as I take in the first drag. This Tough Guy, he does a lot of staring. It must be a tough guy thing to stare at women until they unveil the secrets of the female persuasion to them. I just hope he doesn't expect me to be throwing my underwear at him any time soon; I'm too tired for that shit.

"So, do I get to know your name?" I ask, blowing my smoke at the window. "Or should I just call you Tough Guy?"

"Freddie," he says, and I'm pretty sure that's all the answer I'm getting.

I'm looking at his hands, or rather giving them a quick once-over, when I notice the ring. It's nothing fancy, and at first I think it's a family heirloom or something similar, but then I remember – guys don't usually wear rings on their left hands unless…

"So, Freddie…" I'm looking straight at him, wondering about his hair color again (what the fuck is it? Strawberry blond? Auburn?). "You got a wife waitin' for you back home?"

"Nope," he says, breathing out his answer like a sigh of relief. His hands fold in front of him. "No missus."

"Widower?"

"Divorced."

"Bully for you, Freddie." I flick a few ashes off the end of the smoke, checking for signs of Dickhead over Freddie's shoulder. "I think the whole marriage thing is a big fucking hurricane of bad decisions. Turns tough guys like you into pussies and nice girls into nags. All this for what? A couple of rings? A means to survival? Eh, fuck it - ain't worth it."

"A bit young to be goin' around scorning men like some dried up old fucking prune," he looks me over. "What, did some piece of shit fuck you over? Leave you for a girl friend? Run off with the best man?"

"Nah, nothin' like that." I wave my cigarette, shaking my head. "I just figured out young that men are dicks and there ain't no use in thinkin' you can change 'em."

"Am _I _a dick?"

"By association, yes."

"But take association out of the equation – what do you got?"

My head tilts as I assess him, from the greased back hair and deep-set green eyes all the way down to the hole in the knee of his jeans. I take another puff of my smoke while I decide what it really _is _that I'm looking at.

"Tough Guy. Freddie by christening. Wears a leather jacket that hangs off him like a black sack and smokes too many cigarettes," I reply, shrugging my shoulders. "What about him?"

"What if he ain't a dick?" Freddie shrugs back. "What if he's a nice guy?"

"Why do you care?"

"Maybe I wanna introduce him to a pretty little waitress who works a few blocks down from where he works?" The crook of his mouth turns up. "He might be somethin'. Who knows?"

"So this girl…"I stub out the last of my cigarette, pulling the tepid coffee back toward me. Absently, I dip my finger in, test the temperature – yeah, no good – and push it back away. "You think she's pretty, eh?"

"She's all right for an aspiring cocksucker."

"A little too rough around the edges for this Freddie cat, huh?"

"A little, maybe," he says. "But Freddie, he's a tough guy. He could smooth those rough edges down with a good old dose of Tom Waits charm in no time. I bet you he'd have her worked over like putty in his fuckin' hands just like _that." _He snaps his fingers, emphasizing how quick he could get this job of his done.

I pull a face. "She never was a Tom Waits kind of girl."

"Mick Jagger?"

"Nope."

"Cary Grant..."

I shrug again. "Nope, nope and _nope. _Face it, guy. Ain't no way a cat like this Freddie is goin' to get _her_ in the sack."

"Oh?" Tough Guy raises his eyebrow and it's something straight out of a Bond movie. "And what's so special about this broad that makes her too good for the likes of nice guy Freddie?"

"Freddie ain't a nice guy, can tell you that right here, right now." I lean forward, as if sharing with this cat some secret of how the world works that he doesn't already know. "You wanna know how I know?"

"Yeah, I wanna know."

I smile at him. "Nice guys don't wear their wedding rings when they go out to pick up chicks. Simple as that."

Freddie rolls his eyes. He then reaches for his ring, slipping it off one long, freckled finger, and sticks it in the breast pocket (right next to the carton of Marlboros). "There. Now I'm a regular fucking Mr. Rogers."

"What's this obsession with being some nice guy? You know nice guys finish last."

"Everything I've heard tells me they finish first."

"Ha ha, you're a regular comedian," I reply (gotta love a dirty joke at four o' clock in the morning). "But really – what gives?"

"Nothing gives," he says. "You see a pretty girl, you wonder where she's been, who she's been with, if you'd ever measure up to those other dopes lined up around the block to get with her just once. Simple as that."

"You're first in line, bub," I assure him, twirling my finger in the untouched coffee. He's still drinking out of his, though it must be cold by now. "Congratulations. You're finally ahead in life."

He's staring again. I have half a mind to ask him if his mother ever taught him that the practice is rude and frowned upon in good society. Not that I'm even remotely good society, but still – it's a bad habit I should break him of (if this should be the only time we ever talk, I want him to leave knowing something, having learned a thing or two). But as he watches me, his eyes following the curves and dips and shallows of my face, I realize I could give less of a fuck. It feels good to have someone see me for longer than it takes to ask for a bill, for a fresh cup of Joe. And not just someone – Tough Guy. He isn't bad to look at, not really. He's got a sense of humor, at least that is fairly easy to speculate. A regular catch from what I can see. That wedding ring, though. Divorced my ass. Mrs. Freddie is probably sitting at home wondering where her man has wandered off to as we speak. I can just see her now, standing in the kitchen with her little apron, waddling around the house with a hand on a pregnant belly (a boy, they both know it in their heart of hearts). Oh where can he be? Well, Mrs. Freddie – he's here, with me. Sitting across from a rundown waitress who's too broke to see straight. Not that I planned on being here. I steal another look over his shoulder. A few customers must have come in when I wasn't looking and Dollface and Girlie look none too happy with my lack of participation.

I start to scoot out of my booth, taking my cup with me. "Well, this has been a bucket of laughs, Freddie but…I think it's time I got back to work."

He grabs my forearm, the callus chafing up against my skin. "Wait just a second there, _doll."_

If looks could kill, Dollface and Girlie would have to answer for my untimely demise right here, right now, in this sleepy little diner on the corner of Wilshire Boulevard.

But Freddie here is gawking again, that bad habit of his that I didn't have a chance to break. His hold is soft, nothing desperate like one of those '_when will I see you again?' _kind of vice grips like you see in the movies – when two strangers meet and fall instantly in love from the moment they lay eyes on each other. This is real life, and here is where reality reigns over simpletons like us.

"How much for a cup of coffee?"

"Leaving so soon?"

He stands up, taking my arm with him. It seems that he is reluctant to let go, but across the room I'm getting death glares of all shapes and sizes. Freddie takes his sweet time in counting out the bills, unfolding them and folding them again, mouthing to himself how much is there as I stand, waiting, for him to let me go. At least his hand is warm and dry – not like those sweaty teenagers who come in looking for an unsuspecting ass to grab (mostly Sweets, but poor thing – she's not the most observant of us bunch).

"Take this up to the register for me, doll?"

I do as I'm told, leaving Tough Guy to stare pensively out the window again. The sky is completely gray now, no trace of darkness left. On the way over to the register I check my watch – five thirty eight. No wonder.

It's just a good thing Dickhead wasn't here to witness my bad _bad _behavior, but he'll be coming in soon (can't afford to pay for bonehead mistakes like this one with hard-earned tips).

I count out Tough Guy's change and I'm about to take it back when I look up just in time to watch him stroll out the door. He walks like a cowboy from a spaghetti western, a characteristic that should come across as silly but only seems to make me wonder what he looks like naked. I watch him saunter off, the leather jacket thrown over one shoulder like he's some sort of GQ model, and for a second I find myself thinking – in some strange midget sort of way, he kinda is.

Well, it's over – nothing but an untouchable thing of memory now.

Back at the table, I'm clearing away the aftermath of his visit and collect everything to the edge of the table. Pitcher first, then the mugs, leaving the cream and sugar for the customers to come in later and claim this booth. In my rush to appease Dollface and Girlie (it looks like Chica came in when I wasn't looking), I upset Tough Guy's coffee cup (not much left in it, but still there's a mess) and it spills all over the table. With a _fuck _and a _shit _and a few _godamnit's _thrown in here and there, I get to work mopping up the strong-smelling puddle. One of the napkins had been in the splash zone; it was soaking wet and a sort of tawny, almost caramel color.

And it's as I pick up the napkin, ready to bunch it up and throw it on my tray, when I feel it. It's stiffer than wet napkin, but small – almost rectangular in shape. I peel away the remnants of coffee-stained material, some of it tearing easily underneath my eager fingertips, but I finally free the little rectangular object hiding beneath. It's a business card. But there's no business information on it – just a blank card with some smeared ink beginning to bleed through. It's still legible as I peer down at it, wondering what the fuck this is all supposed to mean.

And then, as I read the running print, I start to smile in spite of myself. Cause it's all just so fucking funny that the world made sense before he walked through that door. Now, I'm not sure what to make of it.

But I'll figure it out again, I always do – somehow.

_Be ready for some regular Barry White shit when I come back. Have a coffee waiting for me. Blacker than black, one sugar, no cream. You'll sit your ass down, I'll tell your boss to fuck off, and we'll talk about absolutely nothing. I'll be back soon. Wait for me, huh?_

_And Lise, you should know – nice guys sometimes don't g__et to finish at all._

_Freddie._

* * *

><p>AN: I originally planned this out to be a full-length story about a waitress who falls in love with Mr. Orange but I think this might just stay a one shot, as is. Maybe if somebody likes it I'll continue but for now - this is it. Thanks for reading, I hope you liked it, and let me know what you thought. :)

Disclaimer - I don't own Freddie Newendyke/Mr. Orange. Everything belongs to Quentin Tarantino.


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